


Room 201

by almostafantasia



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 2x03, Canon Divergence, F/F, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 11:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18622756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: What if Eve had taken Konstantin's information and shown up at the hotel alone?





	Room 201

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing for this fandom for a while but this is the first time I've been brave enough to share what I've written. This is my little imagining of what could have happened if Eve had gone to the hotel without the armed police as backup.
> 
> Enjoy!

Stylish. Arrogant. Unhinged.

Eve could fill an entire book with words that can be used to describe Villanelle, a mental list that continues to grow with each new detail she learns about the assassin.

Meticulous. Show-off. Insane.

 _Chic as shit_.

This hotel is the exact opposite of that Parisian apartment, the exact opposite of Villanelle. The floor tiles are cracked, the wallpaper peeling, both barely noticeable without actually looking closely because of the gloom that shrouds the dank lobby. Eve wonders if Konstantin is sending her on a wild goose chase while he extracts Villanelle from her real hotel, because there is no way that the Villanelle that Eve knows would stay in a place like this.

Unless that is the whole point. Unless Villanelle is staying here because she knows that it is absolutely the last hotel in London that Eve would suspect her to stay at…

“I’m looking for this woman,” Eve says to the white-haired man behind the reception desk, flashing both her credentials and a copy of Villanelle’s most recent prison mugshot.

“Ah,” he nods in recognition. “Second floor. Room 207.”

Eve mutters her thanks as she pockets her ID and the photograph, hurrying past the reception desk and into the shabby elevator. She impatiently jabs her finger against the button for the second floor and the elevator doors slide shut. The elevator comes to life and starts rising to the upper floors of the hotel, shuddering most alarmingly in a way that makes Eve wish she’d decided to take the stairs instead.

The elevator pings and the doors open, and Eve’s eyes settle on the number 207 nailed to the door straight ahead of her.

Well, that was easy.

Eve takes the few steps needed to reach the door and stretches her hand out to the handle. Her fingers close around the cold metal and she freezes. What if Villanelle _is_ behind this door? What is Eve supposed to say to her? Apologise for stabbing her? Make polite small-talk about what they’ve each been up to since Paris? Yell at her for being such an annoying dickhead?

Filled with rage, because how _dare_ Villanelle occupy so much of her brainspace by doing something as simple as existing, Eve grasps the door handle tightly and turns it.

Only to find that the door is locked.

Of _course_ it is locked. Even a crummy hotel like this one is going to afford its guests a certain amount of privacy.

Without thinking, Eve lets go of the handle, takes a step back, and then rams her shoulder into the door, the kind of thing she’s seen in movies.

Naturally, it doesn’t work. Eve is not the star of her very own action movie. The door is still closed and now Eve’s shoulder hurts like a bitch.

“Motherfu-”

There’s a laugh somewhere down the hallway, or maybe it is just in Eve’s head, but she could have sworn that it sounds _just_ like Villanelle. She turns her head and looks down the corridor, as if expecting to see Villanelle looking right at her, but the hall is empty. And yet…

And yet, Eve feels like she’s being watched.

She edges down the corridor, cautiously eyeing the door at the end. It’s just a plain door carrying the number 201, but something draws Eve towards it. She keeps approaching until she’s close enough to touch it, pressing the palm of one hand against the wood.

Nothing happens at first. Eve nearly laughs to herself, because what was she expecting would happen? That she would press her hand against the door and then wham, open sesame? That the door would magically open under her touch to reveal Villanelle? Of course not, that would just be ridic-

The door opens without warning, and Eve nearly stumbles inside the hotel room, as a familiar Russian voice asks, “Were you going to knock or just stand out there all day?”

Eve straightens up and brushes down her crumpled anorak, stopping when her eyes fall on Villanelle.

She looks _good_. Like, _really_ fucking good. Eve hasn’t seen her since the events of Paris, and she realises now that in her mind, she’s been picturing Villanelle still wearing that pink, bloodstained sweater, face covered in cuts and bruises, the silvery handle of a knife protruding from her gut. Instead, it is Villanelle’s pants that are silver, and she is every bit as fashionable as those gold furnishings in the bathroom of the Parisian apartment.

“Do you want to come in?” asks Villanelle, stepping aside to allow Eve entry to the hotel room. “We can have a catch-up.”

“We don’t have time for this,” pipes up another voice from within the room, and Eve glances across for her eyes to meet with Konstantin’s for the second time today. Of _course_ he’s here too.

“Nobody is forcing you to stay,” Villanelle shoots back at him, before returning her attention to Eve. A slow smirk spreads across her face, before she says, “You’re getting pretty good at finding me. Are you going to stab me again? Do I need to carry out a strip search to check for concealed weapons?”

“I really don’t have the patience for this,” grumbles Konstantin.

Villanelle turns around, hands on her hips. Eve stays where she is, standing dumbfoundedly in the open doorway, watching Villanelle glare at Konstantin. After a few seconds of this, Villanelle reaches into the pocket of her fancy jacket and pulls out a key.

“Room 207,” Villanelle says to Konstantin, tossing him the key. “There’s a mini-bar. I know you like to drink those tiny bottles of vodka.”

Konstantin catches the key but looks unimpressed. His eyes flicker between Villanelle and Eve a few times, before he says, “You have exactly five minutes. No longer. After that, I call the armed police myself.”

He gives them each another stern look, one that clearly says _don’t do anything stupid_ , before departing from the room and leaving them alone together.

With Konstantin gone, Eve steps into the hotel room fully and Villanelle closes the door behind her, effectively shutting them in together.

“Are you okay?” asks Villanelle, peering at Eve with a frown on her face.

“Yes, why?” Eve reacts defensively.

“Because you’re looking at me like…”

Villanelle does an exaggerated impression of what Eve’s face might look like, eyes wide and jaw hanging open.

“You’re alive,” Eve offers, by way of explanation. “And you look good. Considering…”

 _Considering I stabbed you_. Eve finds herself unable to finish the sentence, as if saying it aloud is accepting culpability for the knife that she embedded in Villanelle’s stomach back in Paris, but the words hang between them nonetheless.

“I always look good,” replies Villanelle, arrogantly swaggering across the room. She does a little spin and holds out her arms, before asking, “Do you like my new jacket?”

Eve peers closer and examines the garment, form-fitting and made of a dark fabric embellished with little horses. It’s incredibly Villanelle, bold and stylish and the exact opposite of the clothes in Eve’s own closet.

“I didn’t know you were a horse person,” comments Eve.

Villanelle quirks her eyebrows, before saying, “Enough with the foreplay. We have…” Villanelle raises her left arm and checks the watch on her wrist, then continues, “four minutes and eighteen seconds left before Konstantin returns.”

Eve watches as Villanelle’s fingers rise to the belted waist of her jacket, deftly unbuckling it before shrugging the jacket off her shoulders and carefully draping the garment over the end of the bed. It is only when her hands drop to the hem of the purple blouse she wears underneath, that Eve’s eyes widen and she starts protesting.

“Whoa, whoa!” she cries out, raising one of her arms and holding out her hand in protest as Villanelle undresses. “Hold up! I’m not here for that.”

“For what?” asks Villanelle, arching a lewd eyebrow at Eve, though she thankfully drops her hands without removing the shirt. “I was just going to show you my scar. It looks kind of badass. And the ladies _love_ it.”

Eve feels a bubble of jealousy stir within her gut, and she tries to suppress it by swallowing thickly.

Apparently, she doesn’t mask it well enough, because Villanelle asks smugly, “Oh. Are you jealous?”

“Of course I’m not jealous,” Eve is quick to respond.

Villanelle scoffs lightly, then says, “You’re a _really_ bad liar.”

In the silence that follows, Villanelle reaches for the hem of her shirt again, though slower this time, and lifts it up, revealing an expanse of creamy stomach. Eve forces herself to look away before the shirt goes high enough to expose the scar that Eve knows must be waiting there. She looks anywhere else, at the dark carpet, at the peeling wallpaper, at drab view of a row of grey buildings through the net curtains at the window.

“Look at it, Eve. Look what you did to me.”

Eve resists for a moment longer, until her eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Villanelle.

The scar looks better than Eve expected. The skin is pinker than the rest of Villanelle’s stomach and it hasn’t healed over entirely yet, some scabbing still evident in the middle of the wound. But most of it has healed well, a smooth pink scar raised slightly from the skin around it, almost pretty.

 _No_ , Eve reminds herself. _There is nothing romantic about stabbing somebody_.

“You surprised me,” continues Villanelle, tracing her fingers over the scar. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Turns out you’re just like me, after all.”

“I am nothing like you,” scorns Eve, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Do your friends at MI6 know what you’re capable of?” asks Villanelle, eyes narrowing as she takes a step closer to Eve. “Does your husband? Does he know you got into bed with an assassin?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Eve protests, stepping backwards as Villanelle gets ever closer.

“But it could have been,” Villanelle taunts her, glee evident in her voice, as if she knows how much her proximity is affecting Eve. “You know, I imagined you being inside of me a lot of times. But I never thought the first time it would be with a knife.”

Eve feels the heat rise to her face and neck at the implications of Villanelle’s words. She wonders whether she can push past Villanelle and open one of the windows because it’s suddenly _very_ hot in this hotel room, and the only other option is losing a layer of two of her own clothing, which just seems counterproductive considering the situation.

The back of Eve’s knees hit the bed and she stumbles into a seated position, which does nothing except puts her at eye level with Villanelle’s scar, forcing her to quite literally face up to what she did in Paris.

“You can touch it, if you like.”

Eve lifts her right hand and lets it hover between them for a few long seconds, as if about to comply, before shaking her head.

“No.”

She tries to drop her hand, but Villanelle lunges forward with lightning reflexes and wraps her fingers around Eve’s wrist. Eve protests, but doesn’t put up too much resistance, knowing that any struggle is only going to excite Villanelle’s sadistic mind further. Besides, there is a small part of her that _does_ want to touch the scar, that wants to run her finger over the raised skin and marvel at its beauty and at the fragility of life.

It’s not psychopathic to want to touch it, Eve tells herself as Villanelle slowly drags Eve’s hand to cover the scar. It’s scientific. Eve has studied countless crime scenes in her career, has seen many photographs of injuries far more lethal than this one, but never had the opportunity to examine a knife wound in such close proximity before.

“You did this to me,” Villanelle exhales, the muscles of her stomach twitching ever so slightly as Eve’s hand moves independently, exploratory fingers tracing across the sensitive skin of Villanelle’s stomach. “I’m always going to have this scar. I will always have this evidence of you on my body. Like if I got a tattoo of your name, except cooler. It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing romantic about me stabbing you!”

Villanelle laughs to herself, then says, “You wouldn’t have stabbed me if you didn’t care about me.”

“I wouldn’t have stabbed you if you weren’t such a pain in the ass!” retorts Eve.

“There you go again. Such a flirt, Eve Polastri.”

Villanelle covers Eve’s hand with her own, holding it still over the wound on her stomach. Eve’s pulse quickens at the touch, her heart pounding in her chest so violently that the its rhythmic beat must surely be audible from the Headquarters of MI6 halfway across London. If only Carolyn knew where Eve is right now, and who she is with…

“You can’t lie to me, Eve,” continues Villanelle, an air of smugness to her voice but Eve can’t find it within herself to say anything to interrupt. Villanelle’s voice has a strange power over her, a hypnotic charm that she just can’t help but fall prey to. “I know you too well. I know you can’t stop thinking about me. I know how much you like me.”

Villanelle’s other hand comes up to Eve’s face, momentarily cupping her jaw, before moving further backwards and carefully removing the large clip that holds her hair in place. Eve feels her hair tumble around her face in wild curls, but she is powerless to do anything about it. Especially when moments later, Villanelle buries her hand in the untameable mop of dark curls, an expression of awe on her face.

“You have magnificent hair.”

“Villanelle,” gasps Eve, closing her eyes as Villanelle’s fingers massage her scalp.

“Yes,” hisses Villanelle, “say my name.”

“Villanelle,” Eve repeats. “Villanelle.”

She hears the assassin make a little noise of triumph, and Eve opens her eyes. Villanelle is watching her with a kind of wonder on her face, eyes full of longing and mouth slightly agape.

“You’re not going to stab me this time, are you?” asks Villanelle, tilting her head to the side curiously.

It takes Eve a few moments to process the words, a few seconds to understand the implication. She is suddenly transported back to that fateful day in Paris, to the last time Villanelle’s hand gently touched her face and the proximity of Villanelle’s face to Eve’s, the knowledge that had she not put a sudden halt to things by bringing a knife into the mix, then Villanelle’s lips would have captured her own. Eve has spent a lot of time reliving that day in her mind, a lot of sleepless nights lying next to Niko’s snoring form imagining what could have been if she hadn’t stabbed Villanelle.

Unable to form a verbal answer, Eve merely shakes her head and presses her hand a little tighter to Villanelle’s stomach.

“Good.”

Without any warning at all, Villanelle swings her legs over Eve’s hips and takes a seat in her lap. Her hand is still buried in Eve’s hair, while the other one keeps Eve’s hand pressed against the scar, but the position is way more intimate. The height difference between them is less now that Villanelle is no longer standing, but Eve still feels powerless and small beneath her. Her free hand claws into the bedspread beneath her, desperately tethering herself to anything that isn’t Villanelle.

“Ten,” Villanelle breathes out softly, her warm breath hitting Eve’s face and sending a shiver of anticipation down Eve’s spine.

“Ten what?” Eve asks dumbly.

Villanelle removes her hand from Eve’s hair, tucking her finger under Eve’s chin to lift it up as the pad of her thumb brushes across Eve’s lower lip. It’s overwhelmingly sensual, and Eve finds herself arching her back, stretching out her neck and pushing her lips further into the soft touch of Villanelle’s thumb, almost kissing it.

“Five.”

Villanelle lowers her head so that her forehead touches Eve’s.

“Four.”

Another sweep of her thumb across Eve’s lips.

“Three.”

Her fingers tighten over Eve’s, preventing her from moving her hand away from the scar.

“Two.”

Eve closes her eyes and waits for Villanelle’s lips to touch her own.

“One.”

The hotel room door crashes open behind Villanelle, startling Eve so much that she’s sure she would have leapt several feet into the air, were it not for the body in her lap anchoring her to the bed. She tries to push Villanelle off her as her eyes fall on Konstantin entering the room, a key in one hand and a miniature bottle of vodka from the minibar in the other, but Villanelle’s thighs have a strong stance across her lap and won’t be budged.

“Are you serious?” asks Konstantin, as he appraises their appearance, Villanelle seated in Eve’s lap with her jacket on the bed beside them and her shirt rumpled up around her waist. “Five minutes alone, and _that’s_ how I find you?”

“Get off me!” says Eve, panic rising in her throat as she begins to process the compromising position she’s been caught in. The countdown makes sense now - trust Villanelle to know _exactly_ when Konstantin would return and plan accordingly. Eve thinks that the embarrassment she feels at being manipulated in such a way, at succumbing to Villanelle in the _exact_ way that the assassin knew she would, is far worse than the pain she would be in if Villanelle had exacted her revenge with a retaliatory knife in the gut.

Villanelle shuffles off Eve’s lap, though not without a triumphant smirk gracing her lips. The lips that so very nearly…

“No!” Eve shouts out to stop her mind from even daring to venture in that direction. She glances up at Villanelle, who wears a look of smug amusement on her face, before spitting out, “You’re a psychopath!” Eve turns to look at Konstantin, and says, “And you. Please don’t tell Carolyn about this.”

Konstantin laughs under his breath, then says, “I do not think Carolyn and I will be talking for a while.”

“Eve,” says Villanelle, placing a hand on Eve’s shoulder and guiding her towards the door. “This has been fun. What do the British say? A hoot? Yes, that’s it - this has been a hoot. But you should probably go now. Konstantin and I have serious business to discuss.”

“You’re kicking me out?”

“No, I’m asking you very nicely to go the fuck away.”

Eve turns around in the doorway, enraged by Villanelle’s rudeness. She can hardly believe that less than thirty seconds ago, she was about to let such an unhinged lunatic _kiss_ her, that she would have quite happily succumbed to Villanelle’s lips and probably let her do much more, had Konstantin not interrupted them.

“Rot in hell, Oksana!”

It’s the last thing that Eve bellows before the hotel door is slammed in her face, leaving her out in the hallway, while Villanelle remains inside the room, no doubt basking in delight at the encounter.

What a fucking _prick_.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll leave it up to your imagination to figure out how Villanelle and Konstantin get out of the hotel without encountering Eve again.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts below, or alternatively come and flail over Killing Eve with me over on tumblr (@almostafantasia). I expect I’ll write more for this fandom soon and that’ll be the first place you’ll hear about it.


End file.
